


1Before We Land

by danfanciesphil (thejigsawtimess)



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Airplanes, Awkwardness, Clumsiness, First Class, Flight Attendants, FlightAttendant!Phil, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Humor, Lawyer!Dan, Lawyers, M/M, Waiting, aeroplane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 22:09:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16941594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejigsawtimess/pseuds/danfanciesphil
Summary: Twelve hours on a non-stop flight to Tokyo would be no problem for Dan normally. Working for a prestigious law firm has secured him a seat in First Class, and he's on his second glass of champagne as soon as they're in the air. If only he can stop making a fool of himself in front of the cute, endearingly clumsy flight attendant, he might just get through it without hurling himself out of the emergency exit.





	1Before We Land

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr for more prompt fills like this one!
> 
> danfanciesphil.tumblr.com
> 
> xx

********The perks of this job are few and far between. Each morning, when Dan has to slam a hand down on his shrieking alarm clock at 7am, he spends a good ten minutes or so staring at whatever blank, alien hotel room ceiling is above him, and debating whether today might be the day he’ll finally hand in his notice. A _lawyer_. With a briefcase, and a tie, and the knowledge of what ‘habeas corpus’ means. How did he ever let it get this far? 

Most of Dan’s job is comprised of bad bits: the endless, achingly dull paperwork that seems to triple in size each time he opens his briefcase. The pleading, desperate clients facing twenty or more years in federal prison for crimes they didn’t commit. The big-wig, sociopathic corporate giants that send those innocent clients to serve their sentence with nothing more than a false gleaming grin. These things are grim, and at just twenty-six, Dan’s already had a lifetime fill. 

But, even he can admit, working for one of the country’s most prestigious law firms  (don’t ask, he has no idea how he managed it either, and is half-convinced he’s about to be seen for the fraud he is and sent packing) sometimes has its perks. 

There’s the glitzy parties for one thing - unlimited champagne, enormous ballrooms, as many canapés as one can stuff in one’s mouth, and enough schmoozing to put the Whitehouse to shame. 

Then there’s the fancy hotel rooms - big suites in five-star establishments, and the accounts department like Dan, so overlook his minibar tab, within limits. 

But best of all, there’s the First Class aeroplane seats. Dan’s company has a lot of international business, nearly all of which is about as exciting as watching a potato boil, but Dan’s the lucky international relations solicitor that gets to fly out and meet with foreign clients and associates. If the company were in the habit of trusting more people than just him, Dan imagines he’d be stuck in Business Class. But the CEO likes to show off just how much money he can afford to spend on trivialities like getting Dan a little extra legroom, so that Dan can slip it into conversation with the marketing director of Lithuania, and subtly flex their impressive status. Dan extends his long legs into the extra space now, his knees clicking in a satisfying way. Yeah, he could easily live without ever attending another vapid work soirée, or laying wide awake in a bed that’s four times too big for just one guy, in a city he has no attachment to. But the luxury of the plush, roomy seats, of the tiny TV with a hundred of the latest films on demand, the free champagne or cocktails at the push of a button, all while suspended miles up above the clouds… it doesn’t make the hideous solicitor job  _worth_  it, exactly. But it sure does help. 

“More champagne, Sir?” 

Dan turns from the oval of deep, purpling blue hole-punched into the cabin wall at his side. He considers the question, fingering the stem of his plastic champagne flute. His view of the immediate plane interior is already pleasantly dappled around the edges from his first glass. But there’s a long way to go, so he imagines the effects will wear off at some point, and he can get some work done. He swivels properly, and meets the eyes of the flight attendant stood by his solitary chair. 

“Don’t mind if I…” Dan hesitates. Oh my. Those eyes are very, rather excruciatingly blue. “…do.” 

The man gives Dan a tight, polite smile which doesn’t suit him. With what appears to be a great deal of concentration, he then leans the neck of the champagne bottle over Dan’s flute, using both hands to keep it steady. He’s so focused on not spilling it that only a dribble comes out of the tip, meaning it takes around a minute for the flute to properly fill. 

Dan watches all of this amusedly. It’s probably over-tiredness, but something about the man’s furrowed brow, the way a pink tip of tongue sticks just slightly out of the corner of his mouth, seems both hilarious and utterly adorable. 

“First day?” Dan asks. 

The man finishes pouring at last, twisting the bottle with a flourish as he clutches it back to his chest. The flute is half foam, but Dan decides not to comment. It’s probably a good thing anyway, Dan’s had barely anything to eat today. Or… tomorrow, he supposes, attempting to muddle through the altering time zones and immediately giving up. 

“My third, actually,” the flight attendant replies. His cheeks are spotted with pink. “Is it that obvious?” 

Dan picks up the champagne flute, twizzling it between his thumb and forefinger. He surveys the man before him, taking in his pristine, royal blue blazer, with the matching waistcoat beneath. His light blue shirt and tie. The tiny silver pin on his breast-pocket with the airline’s logo. It’s all so neat, so perfectly groomed, that Dan can sense a niggling desire, just below his ribs, to ruck it all up with roaming, devious hands. He takes a sip of frothy champagne. 

“Only to a seasoned commuter like myself, I’d imagine.”

This seems to relax the man a little, shoulders releasing their tension; his shoulders are broad and muscular. Dan imagines them bursting the seams of that blazer as he swoops Dan into his arms, propelling them both out of the emergency exit into the ocean below while the plane plummets… 

“Count yourself lucky I didn’t spill any on you,” the man says, interrupting Dan’s romantic daydream. “I think employing a dyspraxic flight attendant is the airline’s idea of a joke.” 

Dan laughs, and as the warmth of it spreads through his chest, he realises he can’t remember the last time he found anything genuinely funny. The thought is enough to kill the smile almost instantly. His soul aches. 

“Anyway, I’ll leave you to it,” the flight attendant says. “Let me know if you need anything else, Sir.” 

“Your name,” Dan blurts. 

He hadn’t meant to be quite so forward, obviously. He’d meant to slip the question into their polite smalltalk, the way he’s done countless times whilst schmoozing clients. But he’d gotten lost in his own head before the opportunity arose, and the guy had been about to run off. Dan takes a sip of champagne in order to disguise his own embarrassing social faux pas. The flight attendant turns back, obviously surprised, but smiles again, less tight this time. 

“Phil,” he says. 

“I’m Dan,” Dan says, even though Phil didn’t ask. “How long before we get to Tokyo?” 

Phil grimaces, though he tries to hide it. “Ten hours.” 

Dan leans back against his soft headrest. “Brilliant.”

*

It’s not as though Phil’s never been in this kind of situation before. He’s not a recluse, he’s had to act composed around cute guys in the past. At the supermarket last Wednesday, for example, there had been a particularly handsome man stacking the chickpeas, and Phil had managed to pluck one of the tins from the shelf, only knocking three or so to the floor as he did so, and not even blushing a deeper shade than the usual crimson. Judging by his usual clumsy-barometer, for Phil this level of composure warranted some sort of medal. The handsome man had even smiled at him as he spewed a garbled apology. But in the situation Phil finds himself in presently, disaster seems unavoidable.Twelve hours non-stop to Tokyo, in a concealed cabin, with one of the most breathtakingly beautiful men Phil has ever seen. 

“If you’d just let me take Economy Class tonight-” Phil tries, but Alison shoots him a look. 

“For the last time, no!” She turns from him, one of the mini Coke cans in her hand. She’s stacking the drinks trolley, ready for the first trip through the aisles. “We’ve been through this. Baptism by fire, remember!”

“But, I can just tell I’m gonna spill something again-”

Alison places her hands on Phil’s shoulders. “Phil. You’ve got to get it together. First Class has fewer seats, more room between the aisles. There are only twelve passengers to look after! I’m doing you a favour. It’s better to slosh a little champagne on one of the many hundred Calvin Klein suits that these millionaires own, than to spill burning hot coffee on a suburban soccer-mom, who has nothing better to do than scream bloody murder and roast your ass on a yelp review the second she can switch airplane mode off.”

Phil shifts from foot to foot. “That happened once.” 

“Twice!” Alison squeezes his shoulders. “Two bad reviews in three shifts, Phil. Do you wanna keep your job?”

Phil sighs, but nods. 

“So, quit moaning,” Alison tells him, then releases his shoulders, turning back to the drinks trolley. “Do you know what I’d give to be working First Class? You’ll have fuck all to do once they pop their prescription valium.”

Reluctantly, Phil straps on the basket of nibbles. First Class gets a few extra snacking opportunities, though personally Phil thinks some are best avoided. The wicker basket fits onto his front like a baby-carrier, a strap around his neck letting it rest at abdomen-height, you know, for extra humiliation. Wearing this, he feels like a hot-dog vendor in those American baseball movies. He aims a final, desperate look at Alison, who just meets his eyes with an unwavering stare. She inclines her head to the red velvet curtain behind him, and with a sigh, Phil ducks through it. He takes his time meandering down the two wide aisles, encouraging the designer-clad businessmen, the couple of minor celebrities, and the trophy wives, to select a disgusting snack to keep their strength up. Eventually, he gets to where Dan sits, in the front left seat. 

Seat 1B. 

“Honey-glazed pecans? Foie gras parcels? Uh…” Phil picks up an unfamiliar packet, studying it. “Something… seaweed-y?” 

When Phil lowers the packet, Dan is watching him with a vaguely amused smile. His laptop is open in front of him now, displaying a split-screen of what looks like a tedious Excel spreadsheet, and, beside it, an episode of Spongebob Squarepants. 

“Do you have anything edible in there?” Dan asks. 

Phil crouches down until he’s low enough for Dan to peer into the basket. This makes Dan chuckle, but he leans forward readily. As he gets a little further into Phil’s space, Phil can see a small dimple, nestled into his cheek. When Dan’s smile fades, the dimple disappears. Something tugs gently at Phil’s heart. He wants to make that dimple a permanent fixture; Dan’s face seems oddly blank without it. 

Dan ferrets about in the basket with his right hand, a wrinkle in his nose. “I think I’ll chance the pecans. Do we get a meal on this flight?” 

“Yes,” Phil replies. “But it won’t be for another hour. Better stock up.” 

Dan lifts an eyebrow, and Phil’s mouth feels suddenly dry. “Are you offering me  _two_  snacks?” 

Surprising himself more than anything, Phil sends Dan a conspiratorial wink. “Our little secret.” 

The dimple pushes itself back into Dan’s pillowy, smooth cheek. He reaches out and takes another packet of pecans. It’s right at this moment, of course, that a jolt of turbulence bumps the floor of the plane out from beneath Phil’s feet. He stumbles forwards, just about managing to grab something solid to stop him tumbling headfirst into Dan’s lap. The packets of snacks, however, are not so lucky. They shower over Dan in a cascade of crinkling foil, piling on top of him, pooling at his feet, tucking into the crevices either side of him on the chair.

Phil’s mouth falls open, and the plane stops jolting, as smooth as if it never even happened. “Oh my God, I am so sorry.”

He then realises that the solid object he is steadying himself with is Dan’s shoulder. He lets go, a furious flush whipping into his cheeks. Dan is looking a little taken aback, but he still grasps the two packets of pecans in one hand, and is vaguely reaching out with the other, as if ready to steady Phil if he falls further. 

“Er, no- no problem,” Dan is half-heartedly attempting to place some packets back into Phil’s basket. At once, Phil is on his knees, reaching between Dan’s  expensive-looking loafers, to try and retrieve all the packets. It’s more than a little difficult with the enormous basket jutting from his chest. Dan leans over to help him, but Phil pushes his hands, gently, away. 

“Please, no, this is my fault, Sir-”

“Phil,” Dan’s voice is calm, with that faintly amused tinge to it. “This will go a lot quicker if you let me help.” 

Reluctantly, Phil just stays quiet. Together they manage to gather all of the packets from on Dan’s lap, or around it. Twice, Phil’s fingers brush over Dan’s thighs, and he cringes, muttering a mortified apology. He _told_  Alison this would happen. Once all snacks have been safely rehoused in the stupid basket, Phil stands up, about to scuttle quickly away. 

“You weren’t kidding about the dyspraxia, then,” Dan says, stopping him. 

Phil is about to stammer out another apology, but then he catches sight of the teasing glint in Dan’s eye. “I, uh… tried to warn you.” 

“Didn’t realise it was a genuine disclaimer,” Dan says, grinning. He reaches out, placing a light hand on Phil’s wrist. “Hey, don’t worry about it. At least it wasn’t champagne, right?” 

He plucks the half-empty flute from the tray table and sips a bit. Somehow, though God knows how, the drink survived. 

“Ugh, don’t tempt fate, Dan,” Phil says, eyes trained on the flute with unease. “There’s still eight hours of my dreadful attendant skills to go.” 

“Eight hours,” Dan muses, eyebrow quirking again. “Plenty of time for me to wrangle another lap dance.”

Beetroot now, Phil just babbles something nonsensical, and scurries back up the aisle. 

*

Two glasses of champagne were definitely too many. Dan has already managed, in the short four or so hours he’s been on this flight, to flirt so violently at the unsuspecting flight attendant that he literally ran away. At least he got an extra packet of vaguely disgusting pecans, along with a fumbling, accidental caress or two, out of the exchange. He’s annoyed at himself, though, for what he said to Phil. He feels slimy, like one of those Rolex-frosted businessmen in films that hold their meetings in strip clubs, and pinch the waitress’ bum because they feel entitled. Dan buries his nose in his emails, doesn’t let himself watch the rest of Spongebob as punishment, and keeps his eyes peeled for cute-flight-attendant-Phil to re-emerge so he can apologise. 

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Phil doesn’t come anywhere near Dan for another hour. He bustles about at the back of the First Class section, dealing with the various superficial needs of the other passengers. An extra blanket for 3B. A whiskey on the rocks for 6A. Two more pairs of slipper-socks for 4A. Dan manages to catch Phil’s eye once, but Phil blushes, and immediately looks away. 

When the meals are being served however, Phil can’t avoid approaching his chair. The second he’s pulling Dan’s food tray from the cart, Dan slams the lid of his laptop closed. “Phil, listen, I’m really sorry about what I said earlier-”

“This is the salmon, with garlic-rosemary croutons, and a chocolate mousse for dessert,” Phil interrupts, placing the tray down on the small table beside Dan’s laptop. “This is what you ordered, yes?” 

“Yes, but, Phil-”

“It’s okay,” Phil squeaks. There’s a rosiness to his cheeks that does not seem to be from the steam rising out of the food cart. “I’m sorry, I’m er… not used to being flirted with.” 

“It was really not cool of me-”

“…usually people are too busy being irritated with me to attempt the flirting,” Phil says, his words tripping over themselves. “I mean, I’ve heard flight attendants get a lot of come-ons, but I’ve not really had that experience yet, especially not from anyone as hot as you-” 

He breaks off his obvious ramble, eyes rounded. Dan tries, for Phil’s sake, to look as though he hadn’t heard that last part. Traitorously, egged on by the jet-lag and the remnants of the champagne in his bloodstream, a tiny smirk twitches at the corner of Dan’s mouth. 

“Happy to help,” Dan can’t stop himself saying. 

Phil looks like he’s about to swallow his own face. “Um, th-thanks. Sorry. Thanks. Um, enjoy your salmon!” 

He darts away, back through the elusive red curtain, and Dan thinks he hears Phil calling the name ‘Alison’ in a desperate sort of voice. 

*

At least, Phil thinks miserably, sipping a Diet Coke he and Alison stole from the drinks cart to share, he and Dan are on a par now with the level of things-they’ve-said-that-they-probably-shouldn’t-have-said. But Dan’s got the excuse of the alcohol he’s drinking. Phil just has his own moronic, runaway brain to blame. 

Just then, one of the call buttons in First Class is pressed, lighting up on the wall of the small attendant-enclosure. It’s really just a curtained off area between first class and business class, where they store the two drinks carts, and where there are a few dozen hot-shelves for the trays of food to be kept warm. Phil tends to use this area to hide when he’s done something particularly embarrassing, which is often. He looks at the flashing seat number, despair clawing at his chest. Seat 1B. 

“Um, you called?” 

Phil crouches beside Dan’s chair, his voice a whisper because they’ve switched the cabin lights off, allowing anyone who wants to to go to sleep. Several of the other passengers have their seats in recline, and their thin, complimentary sleeping masks over their eyes. Dan, in contrast, has his seat ramrod-straight, his laptop open, and at full brightness, which seems to be disgruntling his closest neighbour, if the way he keeps lifting his eye mask to glare at the light is any indication. 

Dan turns to Phil, sending him a slightly trepidatious smile. “Could I get a cup of coffee?” 

“Sure,” Phil says, creeping off to get it. He returns in under a minute, holding the coffee jug and a mug with two milk packets and two sugar packets inside. He places the mug down carefully on the table beside Dan’s computer; Dan appears to be concentrating so deeply on whatever he’s typing that he barely notices. Phil removes the sugar and milk packets from the mug, then pours the coffee, very carefully. Losing concentration and flooding Dan’s laptop with coffee would be the perfect act to follow his warm-up buffoonery. “Aren’t you gonna sleep?” 

Dan glances up at him, face blank. It seems to take him a few seconds to remember where he is, who Phil is, and that the question requires a verbal answer. Eventually, Dan’s consciousness swims back into play, and he lowers the lid of his laptop a little. 

“I’m still in Boston-time,” Dan says, eyelids drooping. 

Phil frowns. “We came from London.”

“Yeah, but I was in Boston yesterday.” A wrinkle forms between his brows. “Or… two days ago. Today? Christ, I’ve no clue.” He reaches for the coffee, taking a sip completely black. 

“Blimey,” Phil says. “That must take its toll. All the travelling.” 

“Mm,” Dan says vaguely. “I’ll sleep when I get to China. Probably.” 

“Uh… Japan,” Phil says. 

“Shit,” Dan says. “Sorry, I’m not a racist idiot, I don’t think all of Asia is the same. I was just emailing my boss about our Hong Kong branch-”

“It’s okay,” Phil says, assuringly. “If anyone can sympathise, it’s me. I’m still getting used to all the time differences and stuff.” 

Dan’s grateful smile is warm and syrupy. “Yeah, I guess we’re kind of the same breed.” 

“I doubt I’ve got a hotel room quite as swish as yours waiting for me in Tokyo, though.” 

“Yeah,” Dan sighs, turning to look out of the window. It’s pitch black outside; he can’t be seeing anything but his own reflection. “Well, if you wanted to join me in my lavish skyscraper penthouse, I’m sure it has more space than I could ever possibly need.” 

Phil tries not to be too obvious about the way he balks at this casual suggestion. “I’m sure your boss would love that. Inviting a random dude to take advantage of your work-comped minibar.” 

Dan turns back to him, his smile growing lazy, mischievous. “We could have a last, reckless, wild night in my paid-for suite. Order hundreds of pounds worth of room service, empty the minibar, have raucous sex in the bed, in the bath, on the floor…” 

The heat spreads across Phil’s face, down his neck, brushing over his arms, his chest. He thanks the heavens that the dark cabin doesn’t likely let it show. He knows Dan is only mucking about; the bubble of laughter hidden beneath his words is practically palpable, but it doesn’t mean Phil can stop himself picturing each and every one of the scenarios Dan is reeling off. 

“A-and in the morning, when your boss gets the bill?” Phil manages, with only a slight tremor to his voice. 

“I’ll quit,” Dan says, shrugging. “I’ve wanted to for ages. You can smuggle me on the next flight back to England, hide me in the luggage rack or something. And then I’ll abandon my corporate-ruled existence to go live in a cabin in the woods somewhere, off-grid.”

Phil can’t help but giggle. Dan holds something out to him, and Phil realises Dan is offering him a sip of coffee. He is bone-tired, and has half the flight left to go, so he takes it with a thanks. It’s bitter and disgusting without milk or sugar, but he’s grateful anyway. 

“So, am I invited to the cabin in the woods?” 

“Uh, who else is gonna provide my entertainment?” 

Phil tuts dramatically, placing Dan’s mug back down. “Is that all I am to you, Dan? Your court jester?” 

“After our steamy, lost night in Japan, I’d say you’re a lot more than that,” Dan replies, making Phil laugh. 

“Your courtesan, then?” 

“I’d treat you right,” Dan assures him. “All the home-grown potatoes you can eat.” 

“I want a dog,” Phil tells him, chin raised. “That’s my price.” 

Dan shrugs. “I’ve always wanted a corgi. Does that work?” 

Phil tries not to let the surprise of Dan suggesting his all-time coveted pet so casually in this ridiculous, hypothetical scenario. How could he possibly have known? 

“S-sure. I’ll name her Susan.”

“Susan,” Dan repeats with an approving nod. “We have a deal, then?” 

Phil smiles, feeling it spread, buttery and smooth, across his face. “Deal.” 

“Better finish that episode of Spongebob before your company laptop is confiscated, then,” Phil tells him. “If you need me, you know where my button is.” 

“Ooft, save it for Tokyo, Phil.” 

*

In the darkness, it’s surprisingly difficult to walk in a straight line. Making it harder, potentially, are the caffeine jitters, the exhaustion, and the fact that the floor is, literally, shaking beneath Dan’s feet. Nevertheless, he manages to make it up the aisle towards the red curtain, and only hits two people in their sleeping faces in the process. 

It’s only as he approaches the curtain, that he realises he has no idea if the toilets are actually behind it, or if he’s just blindly following in the direction Phil has been disappearing all night. It’s probably the latter, he decides, irritated with his own stupidity. He doesn’t particularly want to attempt another walk down the aisle however, especially if he has no clue where he’s supposed to be going. So, he decides to just pull back the curtain and ask for directions, no matter how foolish he may appear. 

Phil is stuffing a dry, crumbly looking cake into his mouth. When he sees Dan, he freezes, mouth full. “Daff!” He exclaims, quietly. 

Dan laughs. “Sorry, um, I was just looking for the loo.” 

With some difficulty, Phil manages to swallow the mouthful of cake. It seems to make his eyes water. Bizarrely, the only thing Dan can think is that he’s remarkably neat about the act, managing not to spill any crumbs, and coughing politely against his fingers before speaking. 

“Y-yeah, sure, it’s just through here,” Phil says, pushing a second curtain, on the other side of the small area, aside. “Go through.” 

Dan shoots him a smile, then crosses the tiny space, thanking Phil as he holds the curtain for him to pass. In the confined bathroom, Dan pees, washes his hands, then wearily stares at his haggard appearance in the mirror. He splashes cold water on his face, hoping it will wake him up, but only succeeds in thoroughly dampening himself and realising he has no towel to dry off. He manages to soak up the worst of it with toilet paper, but the curls scrunching at his forehead are visibly damp. 

He sighs, but exits the cubicle anyway. After the blaring fluorescent lights of the small bathroom, the plane cabin seems ridiculously dark. He reaches a hand out to keep from toppling over, blind. He waits outside the bathroom door for his eyes to adjust a little, and eventually is able to make out the aisles of Business Class passengers, all of whom seem to be asleep. It’s eerily quiet, aside from the omnipresent rumble of the plane’s engine, which obviously, Dan is glad he can still hear. 

He turns away from the lolling heads of passengers, and ducks back behind the curtain, into the odd little attendant-enclosure. Phil is still there, no longer stuffing cake into his mouth, and looking forcibly nonchalant, as if he’s been waiting for Dan to re-emerge. 

“Bored?” Dan asks, beginning to cross the tiny space to the opposite curtain, and right then, an enormous shake of the plane throws Dan across the metre or two of floor space, until he’s pressed right up against Phil’s front, practically pinning him to the wall. “Shit!” Dan’s eloquence never fails him in times of trouble. “I’m sorry, I-”

Another rattle, bigger this time, and such a swoop as the plane drops a few feet that Dan actually yelps, clutching Phil’s forearms. Phil’s hands come to Dan’s waist, alarmed. 

“It’s okay, it’s just turbulence-”

A third shake, the worst of the three, has Dan squeezing his eyes shut and pushing his face into Phil’s shoulder. He doesn’t realise how hard he’s gripping Phil’s arms until the distant sound of Phil’s voice in his ears grows steadily louder. 

“Dan. Dan! It’s okay, I think it’s stopped.” 

Dan jerks his head out of Phil’s shoulder. They’re pressed together rather tightly for two strangers. Dan’s head swims, fear-born adrenaline pumping through his veins, blowing rational thought out of the cabin doors. In the instant before his fried brain reorients itself, he equates the proximity, the nearness of such a gorgeous, warm body, as something entirely different. His hips push forwards, instinctively, and he hears Phil gasp, soft and surprised. 

In the next second, Dan plummets back into his own body, and he remembers who he is, where he is, and that, most importantly, he currently has his kind, but only professionally interested flight attendant pinned against the wall. 

“Fuck,” Dan hisses, jumping backwards. “Fuck, Phil, I’m so sorry. I’m so tired I can’t think straight-”

Phil takes a step towards him. It’s a hesitant, frightened movement, barely noticeable, but he still makes it. Dan stops speaking. He can hear a fast, rhythmic pounding, deafeningly loud in his ears. He almost asks Phil what the hell it is, if it’s part of the plane’s mechanisms failing, but then he realises he’s hearing his own heartbeat. It sounds like it’s about to burst out of him, alien-style. 

“I’d rather you weren’t,” Phil whispers. Dan can’t hear over the noise of his own heart, but he’d bet Phil’s is going at a similar rate, judging by the look on his face. “Thinking straight.” 

There’s a numbness settling over Dan’s mind, like a haze of mist, clouding all common sense, all responsibility. His laptop, his First Class seat, his Tokyo hotel room… all of it seems eons away from this tiny, poorly lit back room, sealed off by two red curtains. All that’s in front of him is Phil. Unknowingly sexy, clumsy, awkward, adorable, flight attendant Phil, in his blue uniform that matches his eyes. 

Dan surges forwards at the same time Phil reaches to tug him in by the shirt. It’s Marc Jacobs, brand new, and Phil just had a greasy, dry cake in his hand, but Dan literally could not give less of a fuck. He’s never liked the shirt anyway. He hated going into the department store to buy it, hated the sniffy, judgemental clerk that sold it to him, hated the way it hugged him too tightly when he tried it on. He wishes Phil would rip the damn thing off him, with his teeth, if possible. 

Instead, Phil just kisses him, hands fisted in the shirt, lips tasting of sweet, cakey sugar. He kisses without force, but with plenty of urgency. His mouth pillows against Dan’s, kissing over and over, fitting their lips together in every imaginable pattern. Dan leans in, pushing Phil up against the wall behind him. A strange, intrusive thought plunges into his mind, of the Britney Spears video ‘Toxic’; he is Britney, shoving some poor unsuspecting man up against the wall of the plane. But really, Phil is the flight attendant - shouldn’t it be the other way around? 

To quiet the mad thoughts rattling around in his brain, Dan prises Phil’s lips apart with his own, and flicks the barest tip of tongue inside, encouraging Phil to lick into his mouth, to claim him. He wants to be ravished right now, to have his mind and body obliterated by something raw and primal, something that will steal every ounce of his conscious thought, and leave him unable to concentrate on anything else. 

Phil takes the bait, pushing his tongue forward, sliding it against Dan’s, then flipping them around so he’s the one pressing Dan against the wall. His hands find Dan’s hips, then his bum, and squeeze, hard. Dan groans, loud - too loud, probably, for the silent plane - but Phil just does it again. He moves to press open, messy kisses along Dan’s jaw, then down his throat. When his path is obstructed by the stiff collar - Marc Jacobs you fucking cock-block - he just yanks at Dan’s tie and tears it open. 

Dan’s eyes widen at this; he hadn’t expected such confidence from a man who’d almost fainted with embarrassment for spilling packets of nuts on Dan only a few hours ago, but he’s more than happy to roll with it. Phil leans in, trickling a tongue along the pulsating vein snaking up Dan’s neck. He seals his mouth over Dan’s pulse, and bites down. Dan groans for a second time, hands clutching at Phil’s big, muscled shoulders. They feel just as glorious as he’d imagined. 

Just then, the curtain draws back, and a woman in Phil’s uniform walks in, her mouth dropping open as she takes in the scene. “What the fuck is going on here?” 

Phil jumps back, cheeks instantly tomato-red. Flustered and excruciatingly aroused, Dan attempts to gain composure, adjusting his collar and tie whilst looking ashamedly at the floor. 

“Alison,” Phil blurts. “We were just- I was just showing Dan here… um-”

“Your tonsils?!” 

Phil makes a pained face. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking-”

“It’s my fault,” Dan interjects. “Phil was just… comforting me. The turbulence sort of… shook me up. I took advantage of his… professional kindness.” 

Alison sighs heavily, then sweeps a hand through her hair. “Look, I like you Phil. I don’t want you to get fired. But this-” She flaps her hand between he and Phil. “Is just…  _so_  against the rules. You must know that, surely.” 

Phil’s head hangs down, but he gives a small nod. 

“I’m gonna overlook it this time.” Alison shoots a warning glare first at Phil, and then at Dan. She jabs a finger at the Marc Jacobs shirt. “If you’re one of those morons intent on joining the mile high club you can bloody well do it on a different flight. Understood?” 

Dan nods quickly, shoulders sagging in relief that Phil is getting off with a mere warning. Alison rolls her eyes at them both, but stalks back through the curtain, leaving them alone. Phil straightens up, looking vaguely traumatised. It takes a few moments of staring at each other before they both burst into hysterical laughter. 

“Jeeesus,” Phil says after a while, sounding breathless. “Thought she might kick us out the emergency exit for a minute.” 

“Nah,” Dan says, still grinning. “She’d never risk treating a First Class passenger so poorly.” 

Phil rolls his eyes. “I don’t know what the fuck just happened,” he admits. 

Dan laughs, but it’s a little forced this time. For some reason, his heart gives a pained little throb. He’s not sure what he expected Phil to say. It’s not like Dan had felt a great swirling love-at-first-sight type of connection between them. But that’s not to say that there was  _no_  connection whatsoever. That fleeting few minutes of gropey making out is probably the hottest, most sensual thing that’s happened to Dan in a long time. Maybe ever. 

“I’d better… go back to my seat,” Dan says after a moment. He hates himself for over-thinking this already. 

Phil nods, seeming to pick up on the change in Dan’s tone. “Okay.” 

Dan nods back, then moves towards the curtain. He pauses. “How long left of the flight?” 

Phil opens his mouth to answer, but right then, the intercom pings softly. 

_“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Just to let you know we will shortly be beginning our descent. Please make your way back to your seats, as the seatbelt signs will be going on…”_

Dan shrugs at Phil, sending a half-smile his way, then ducks through the curtain.

*

The final forty-five minutes of the flight are spent strapped to the flight attendant’s pull-down chair in the attendant’s-enclosure. Alison glares daggers at him from the opposite chair for the whole descent, which is more than a little unnerving. Alison’s usually pretty chill and nice, so Phil reasons this must be her way of attempting to convey the severity of his crime. Honestly, he doesn’t blame her. If someone had told Phil at the beginning of this flight that he’d end up snogging a First Class passenger before it was over, he’d have laughed heartily. He’s not the sort of person that - intentionally - puts a foot wrong at work. Despite what his clumsy demeanour might say outwardly, Phil actually tries to be a diligent worker. Silly as it sounds, Phil’s wanted to be a flight attendant since he was a kid, running around his garden making ‘zwoom’ noises with his arms outstretched. Okay, so maybe when he was that little he wanted to be the  _plane_ , but still. 

Not to mention, Phil can’t think of a single other time he’s ever soberly done something as brave and stupid as grabbing a man as attractive as Dan, not to mention as sexually-ambiguous as Dan, and kissing him. What has come over him this flight? Is it the jet-lag catching up with him? Is it the boredom of such a long journey? Or is it just Dan himself, catching on every single one of Phil’s hidden desires with his secret dimple, and his soft curls, and his cheeky little flirtatious side that seems to peek out whenever Dan lets his guard down, even momentarily?

“I think I’ll see the First Class passengers out,” Alison says briskly. “You can go stand at the Business Class exit with Gabby.” 

Phil tries not to let his alarm be too obvious; his one final glimpse of Dan is already slipping through his fingers. “But-”

“Don’t argue with me,” Alison warns. “You’ve read the handbook. It’s against policy to fraternise with passengers. If someone else caught you two there’d be hell to pay.”

Phil sinks in his seat. That cabin in the woods sits temptingly on the distant, unreachable horizon. 

*

It was always a long shot, Dan tells himself, sipping his second tiny bottle of minibar bourbon in the hopes it might get him to feel sleepy. Leaving a scrap of paper with his hotel address on it tucked in the in-flight magazine at his seat was perhaps  _too_  subtle. He hadn’t even written Phil’s name on the paper, too scared that the other, mean attendant lady might find it and scold Phil for it. Plus, as Dan hadn’t checked into the hotel yet, he wasn’t able to leave Phil a room number. So, all Phil would have to go on, if he even did manage to find the hidden note, would be Dan’s first name, and the name of a hotel in the middle of Tokyo. 

If Dan were him, he wouldn’t bother. One steamy but short make out session mid-flight does not equate a cross-town trek for a romantic reunion in the wee hours. Besides, for all Dan knows, Phil has a plethora of frequent-flyer lovers he could choose to spend the night with. He downs the rest of the minute bottle, feeling nothing but a slight grogginess. Somehow, though, he knows that Phil doesn’t do this sort of thing often. He’d sensed the urgency of it, the thrill of his frantic, nervous kisses. 

A tired squeeze of arousal wraps itself around Dan’s groin. It had taken the full forty-five minute descent for Dan’s hard-on to go down. Phil had barely done more than kiss him, but he still managed to get Dan worked up into such a state that he’d almost fallen in someone’s lap on the way back to his chair. Idly, Dan’s fingers trail over the bruise on his neck. He’d caught sight of it in the airport bathroom mirror, and flushed a little once he realised he’d just strolled through the terminal with it on show. He’ll have to cover it up before the meeting tomorrow. Perhaps he could find somewhere to purchase a scarf. 

But then… what if he didn’t? What if he just let it sit there, at the base of his pale throat, collar unbuttoned, leaving it in full view? What if the Japanese clients were forced to sit across from him at whatever grey, flat table they’ll be given, and just stare at the hickey, speculating internally about the devious deed Dan got up to to procure it? It might be, in a sadistic sense, sinfully delicious, to know that they would be too polite to comment, but would be, still, almost definitely, picturing the moment it happened. 

He’d be in trouble for it, later, of course. The clients would report it (the Japanese in particular are serious about professionalism and smartness) and Dan would be reprimanded for being sloppy, for embarrassing the company. He sighs, chucking the tiny, empty bottle onto his coffee table. Still, he thinks, fingers grazing the mark, it’s a pleasant thought. 

The view from Dan’s room is phenomenal. He thinks he can see across the whole city from up here; the gradual light of morning is beginning to frost the darkness, and Tokyo will be waking up soon. Dan sighs to himself, head lolling backwards in the odd, egg-shaped chair he’s sat in. Just then, a strange, robotic trill sounds, and it takes Dan a bleary moment to realise that it’s his hotel room telephone ringing. He blunders over to the bed, and reaches for it.

“Hello- Uh, Kon'nichiwa.” 

“Mr Howell?” The voice on the other end of the phone asks. 

“Yeah, hi.” 

“There is a guest asking for you, please.” 

Dan looks at his iPhone. It’s 4:32 in the morning. Surely Jacobs can’t be wanting to start rehearsing the presentation yet. “Who is it?” 

“He says his name Phil.” 

Dan stops breathing. His mouth parts, and the haze of liquor clears for a moment, allowing a beam of dazzling light to pierce through. “Phil,” he breathes. His mind whirls, freewheeling from side to side. “Um, black hair? Blue blazer? Kind of… awkward?” 

The voice lets out a breathy chuckle. “Yes, Mr Howell. Shall I allow him up to your room?” 

“Uh… um… y-yes. Send him up.” 

Dan puts the phone down, instantly blanking on what to do next. He hasn’t showered since he got off the plane, and his hair is probably a greasy mess. There are three small empty bottles of liquor on the table, and his paperwork is already everywhere. At a loss for what else to do, Dan toes off his shoes in the hopes he will look a bit less mad. 

It seems that mere seconds pass, and then there’s a knock at the door. Dan swallows, whispers ‘Christ’, and then goes to open it. Phil’s still wearing his uniform, and he’s looking half as if he’s about to run back into the elevator and flee. But Dan’s smile bursts from within as soon as he sees that mousey, nervous expression. And Phil, miraculously, smiles back. 

“You found me,” Dan says. 

Phil laughs. “Well, you left me your address. Makes the stalking a little easier.” 

“I… how did you know which room?” Dan asks.

“I just checked the list of passenger details,” Phil says, shrugging. His cheeks are dusted with rosy pink. “Daniel Howell, Seat 1B. When I got here, I just asked for you at the front desk.” 

Dan realises, only due to Phil’s awkward shifting, that they’re both still stood in the doorway. He steps back hurriedly. “Come in, come in.” 

Phil takes a step in, still obviously unsure. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his blue slacks. “I honestly don’t know what possessed me to come.” 

Dan’s face falls; he hopes it isn’t noticeable. “Oh.” 

“Not that… I didn’t want to.” Phil is looking around the enormous room; he seems somewhat daunted by its size and opulence. Dan can’t blame him, he remembers feeling similarly overwhelmed the first few times he stayed in places like this. “I did want to. A lot. I actually couldn’t really… stop myself. I was gonna get a taxi to my own hotel but I found myself just handing the driver the note you left and…” 

Dan feels a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. “Oh.” 

Phil’s gaze sweeps a full circuit of the room, then lands back on Dan. “So,” he clears his throat. “Still thinking of quitting in the morning?” 

Dan knows it’s a joke, but somehow, at this ungodly hour, in a foreign city, stood with a man he both barely knows, and feels he’s always known, the possibility seems closer than ever. 

“That depends,” Dan replies after a moment. Phil’s eyes are caught on something behind Dan now, and Dan knows it’s that spectacular view, sprawling for miles into the horizon, over which the sun is probably just about to rise. Dan steps closer to him, and takes hold of one of his hands. “Still up for helping me have one final, decadent night at my company’s expense?” 

Phil’s eyes sparkle. “Hmm, how often do I get to walk Susan?” 

“I’ll give you healthy visitation rights.” 

“Will you cook the potatoes, or just grow them?” 

“I’m a shit cook, but I’ll happily Uber Eats us some chips if I fuck it up.” 

“I suppose those terms are acceptable,” Phil says after a moment, then sighs dramatically. He grins. “Race you to the minibar.” 


End file.
